
The woman who had stopped to ask Hazel Ware how she was had moved on to a small group of other women, all drinking tea and looking more like the grown-up women I was used to. Knitted skirts, tan tights and hair that had been permed or set. We would see them in the hairdressers on the High Street, Aunty Jean among them, sat under the huge hoods that made them look like rows of Stormtroopers, protecting our town from invasion.